


Batman: Before Hush

by iammemyself



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 15:43:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5831329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammemyself/pseuds/iammemyself





	Batman: Before Hush

Batman: Before Hush

Indiana

Characters: The Riddler

Synopsis: What events preceded Hush?

 

 

Part the First

 

It was a dark and stormy night.

Flickering fingers of lightning split the sky like spidering cracks from the heavens, bleeding jagged light. Rain filled the air, suffocating. Cold. Like the -

No, that's not the kind of night it was. But that was a cliché enough sentence to grab your attention, was it not? Of course it was. Onward with reality! Which is, as the saying goes, stranger than fiction.

Quite to the contrary, it was neither particularly dark nor overly stormy. That's what I meant when I said reality was stranger than fiction. You see, the default weather for Gotham City is somewhere between pouring rain and a pleasant, but grimy, drizzle, and on the day in question, it was outside of those typical parameters. _Well_ outside; the sunlight filtering bravely through the low-hanging clouds was actually hitting the ground. Now _there's_ a miracle in the making.

I didn't like it.

It was quite a grand day, by anyone's standards. I don't have anything against good weather, of course. That would be ridiculous, and I am by no means ridiculous. However, my appearance - particularly my face - is rather distinctive, and it is far easier to go unnoticed in the general gloom of Gotham's perpetual twilight than it is when the sun is practically begging to caress one's face. Which it should. But it was not a good time.

I have always found it a little, shall we say, _ironic_ , that I spend most of my time shuffling between two islands. Arkham Island in particular amuses me, when I'm not on it, that is; is an island not a prison-like place, an isolated piece of land from which the mainland is far separate? The Asylum is a prison within a prison! Much like Alcatraz, only still operational and far less stimulating. They say no man has successfully escaped from _that_ super-prison; that's only because they were never able to send _me_ there. The Asylum, on the other hand, is well-known for its revolving-door policy, as it is often so quaintly put, and is easily absconded from at one's leisure. I had done so that afternoon, a few hours prior to where this tale began. One would think it is easier to escape the Asylum at night - and it is, depending who's doing the rounds and whether you can effectively threaten them with whatever common item you happen to have with you at the time - but I don't do things because they're _easy_. I do them because I want to. And that day I happened to want to disappear while the administrator was shuffling a gaggle of nosy little brats through the cold stone halls, ogling at us as though we were some sort of exotic zoo exhibit. Not exactly accurate; I disappeared _before_ that. I don't do field trips.

Although my face is extremely recognisable, much of the Asylum staff _also_ operates on a revolving-door policy. Thus, if you choose your route carefully, you can quite easily stroll past several new hires who can't tell you from the Bat himself. It's insulting, really, and while I smile and wave and pretend to be one of the minor loonies they house downstairs, I am actually seething. Some people just do not understand _respect_ in this town. They don't recognise me, but I file them away for later. Much later. When I need fodder for my notorious deathtraps. That's about all they're good for, anyway. That's all _most_ people are good for.

Once the length of the Asylum's maximum and standard security wings has been crossed, one must then traverse the entrance and processing halls. This part can be tricky during the day, as there are so many people milling about, but for myself it is quite simple. Because I didn't head in that direction. Not yet.

Walking a little faster, but not so fast as to arouse suspicion, I made my way to the staff rooms. I could, of course, make it out wearing the very fashionable pyjamas they supply us with upon check-in to this marvellous luxury hotel, but most of the time it's not really worth the risk. On occasion I am tempted. They really do make it too easy.

Once safely within the staff room, I quickly shed the _dreadfully_ tacky uniform I was assigned - you didn't think I was _serious_ about the fashionable pyjamas, did you? - and after a necessary rifling through the respective outfits left behind by those poor souls in the employ of that madhouse, I don some hapless sop's accoutrements. Not anything I would choose to wear if I didn't have to: an ill-fitting green plaid polo and brown slacks so worn I could almost see through them. I stand taller than the average man, however, and so there wasn't exactly a large selection. Unfortunate, but unavoidable.

I then turned my search to a pair of shoes. Technically, all employees are required to step into some manner of non-slip footgear upon beginning their shift. However, due to laziness or otherwise - who are we kidding, of _course_ it's laziness - many of them do not and stroll around in their street shoes. Which works out rather well for the rest of us. Many an escape attempt hinged on people falling down...

In any case, I was forced to lace up a pair of black sneakers tenuously keeping their hold on life by way of a mass of fraying threads that did not quite fit. And by that I mean that they were a size and a half too large. Hideous.

To complete the trendy ensemble was a newish brown jacket, which I had to fasten by way of the buttons because the zipper was broken. I shook my head as I shoved my hands into the coat's pockets. If only more people had _standards_ when they got dressed in the morning.

New accoutrements acquired, off I went. Now free to cross the final hallways, I did so, cheerfully greeting anyone I passed, ducking my head only when I sensed the roving gaze of a camera passing over me. It really was too late to stop me, at that point, but it never hurts to be cautious when caution is prudent. Once across the proverbial welcome mat, it was simply a matter of selecting a vehicle and providing it with a more watchful owner. That being myself. I was not too particular about the car this time, seeing as I was already dressed like a clod, so I selected the first one I came across after stepping onto the cracked, grass-invaded greying asphalt sprayed with parallel yellow lines visible only if one squinted and used their imagination, and produced a lockpick with which to open it. Any inmate at the Asylum worth their salt has two or three of _those_ lying around. It was a decent ride, a Chevy Malibu, late nineties if I recall correctly. Which of course I do. The dull red paint was peeling up around the door handles and along the wheel wells, but since aesthetics didn't really matter on this occasion, it would do.

Starting the car was another no-brainer; I don't care to count how many I've hotwired. After that, it was a simple manner of driving through the Asylum gates, which were not generally watched too closely even in what passed for daylight in Gotham, and crossing the bridge from one island to the other. Traffic was heavier than I was used to, merely because I don't have much cause to traverse the bridges at any given time. It was also slower than it should have been, possibly due to tourists slowing down next to the Asylum to get a look. This is why I don't like out-of-towners. They think everything here is a photo op. It sometimes is; depending on who's supervising the facility that day, they may or may not be allowed through those iron-forged front gates and permitted to roam the grounds as though they themselves have been committed. Or perhaps not; _I'm_ certainly not allowed to frolic in the grass when _I'm_ interred there. If frolicking were a thing I partook in. Which it is not.

The car wasn't anything I'd particularly want to drive if I had the choice, but it did the job better than some of the others I've tried. Unfortunately, I had to ditch it shortly after motoring my way over the Sprang River by ways of the Trigate Bridge, seeing as I didn't feel up to a car chase and they had probably noticed someone's auto had been filched by a person who had not been present when the little maggots were led by their dripping noses by a certain escapee's cell. Probably.

And so there I was, walking past my ivy-hugged alma mater and trying not to be noticed as the sunlight did its best to illuminate my features. Something that I wouldn't have minded, were I someplace else. A place to which I was heading: one of my many scattered little hideaways, this one conveniently located... or it would have been, if I'd still had the car. From the point I was at, it was going to take another good hour of walking before I came close. A good hour where I could potentially be recognised and sent back to the Asylum. Wearing only a domino when you're out and about, conducting your business with the Dark Knight Detective, can have disadvantages. But I never was one for the face-covering schtick. Why would I want my face to be covered? Preposterous! It makes for easier anonymity, this is true, but I consider it a small due to pay. Truth be told, even the mask feels like too much, sometimes. However, some traditions are worth upholding.

I made it to my hideout without much incident, other than for one homeless man mistaking me as one of his gritty brethren; nothing really happened, other than my wanting very much to include him in some tragically fitting riddle. Alas, it was not the time for that, and so I gritted my teeth and brushed by him in as restrained a way as I could. I wish I could have seen him standing up from that puddle, degenerating coat and threadbare jeans now given a good rinse in the scummy water on the street that never seemed to dry up, but I knew his little fall would draw attention to the both of us and so kept my gaze forward.

The place I had chosen was not one of my best, but that was fine; I didn't quite have a plan in mind yet anyway. Usually I prefer to remain in the Asylum until I have all of my particulars set almost in stone, but this time the boredom got to me. That, and the imminent threat of gawping little monsters eyeing me like some sort of mildly interesting fish. As it was only a minor hideout, there were no special security measures in place - in fact, the door wasn't even locked - and so without ado I turned the scuffed brass door handle of the somewhat-abandoned office and entered the dark interior. The dust hanging in the air fairly glowed in the rare sunlight, which did not altogether fade as I closed the door; some of it seeped in through badly boarded windows rent through with spidering cracks. I made use of the fresh deadbolt and tried not to sneeze.

Once securely contained within, I was not at all in the mood for grand schemes. I was tired, hungry, annoyed, and above all, very footsore. I believe walking across Coventry in my Asylum slippers would have been better for my feet than the shoes I had borrowed.   I removed them unceremoniously and didn't bother to look as they clattered against some far wall. I would dispose of them later. For now, I sat back in the chair at the desk provided, one essential requirement for all of my hideaways, and set my feet to the worn wood floor. I had no socks and there was a sharp chill beneath the floorboards, but that was fine. From there I propped my chin up on my left hand, elbow braced against the arm of the mildly dilapidated desk chair, tenuously wrapped in brown leather as it was, and pondered what I was going to do next. As I thought, I ran an eye over the desk in front of me. It, too, was worn out and tired - much like I was, come to think of it - and nothing too fancy. It was the sort of desk you'd find in an older school that can't afford to replace anything. Solid, quality construction, but very heavy. Curious, I leaned forward and hooked a finger in the topmost drawer handle on my left side, pulling gently. The drawer barely budged and I was required to invest a little more effort. Now that I had decided to do that, the drawer flew along the inner track and escaped from my hand, clattering on the floor to the rear of me. Annoyance once again creasing my brows, I turned to look at the spilled contents.

The drawer itself, surprisingly, was intact; these desks certainly _were_ built to last. It held - or sort of held, seeing as some of what it had contained was now on the floor - a sheaf of wrinkled papers, a collection of Bics in assorted colours, and a yellowing old legal pad that looked as though it would crumble if one set a writing instrument to the faded blue lines. Again interested, I moved to the drawer and crouched there to page through the documents.

Most of it was legal documentation pertaining to divorce settlements; so I had moved into some hapless, defunct divorce lawyer's old office. I smiled to myself. No doubt the old occupant had once sat in the very chair I had just vacated, daydreaming of taking on the biggest celebrity cases Gotham City had to offer! But had instead been bogged down in the tedium of settling disputes between tired old romances long since lost their spark and the shouting matches of hopeless drunkards and prostitutes, unified in lewd back-alley marriages witnessed by melting black garbage bags and haggard, feral cats. This city certainly does have a penchant for shoving one's dreams where the sun will never shine.

What a beautiful place to live.

I returned the wayward papers to the inside of the drawer and inserted it into the dark hole it usually occupies when it doesn't make an escape attempt to places unknown. A little bit of an allegory for myself, actually. In a slightly better mood, I then had to focus on finding something to eat. There was nothing in the office, as it was not something I usually specified when marking out my conditions to the Broker. I glanced at the makeshift wooden curtains on the windows. It can be hard to tell, in a city existing mostly in perpetual twilight, but I was confident it was about sundown. Excellent.

It was becoming difficult to see, when not in front of the window, so a detour was required. A minor one, to be sure, but essential: I had to find the portable generator so that I would have a little power with which to conduct my business, whatever that turned out to be. After a few minutes of squint-eyed searching, I found it underneath the desk. Upon first glance, it seemed to be new or nearly so. I felt along the case until my fingertips located the ignition switch, which I activated. The desk was topped with an anglepoise lamp, which I switched on after plugging it into the generator. Let there be light! As the saying goes.

I took a cursory look at the now dimly-illuminated space of the office: a few banged-up filing cabinets marked the rightmost wall, joined by a sagging bookcase stacked with legal briefings and tomes on several different types of law. A dusty imitation fern was somehow losing leaves in the corner. Beneath the window crouched a tired pleather couch, the cushions cracked and sunken under the long-ago weight of angry, resentful asses. Next to the couch was a dollar-store magazine rack, split by a long fissure originating from the base, overflowing with cheap magazines. To complete the sad picture was what had been at some point a reasonably nice coffee table, ovoid in shape, but was now tilted in three pieces over legs that seemed permanently embedded in the roughened wood of the floor. I wondered for a moment who had resided here before myself. No matter. I had more important things to attend to.

Neatly folded into the third desk drawer I tried were the clothes I had requested, and though I had been curious as to where those were, I was not ready to don them just yet. In the morning I would, after I had cleaned up. All I wanted just then were some socks and shoes. They were found in the next drawer. Now clad in argyles and brown dress shoes that actually fit, I was ready to head out.

Though the city is large, I know it very well. One must, if one is going to go up against a man who makes a living out of appearing from the shadows of the most out-of-the-way alleys. This particular plot of real estate was one I selected on this occasion partially for two reasons: the closeness of a reasonably well-kept square lined with mostly reputable shops, and the also very near proximity of a slightly mismanaged YMCA. The Y I would head to in the morning but for now, the square was my destination.

I made a sizeable withdrawal at a battered ATM using one of my numerous bank accounts and folded most of it into my coat pocket, hoping for a moment that it didn't have any holes in it. It was probably too much, but there are few things more embarrassing than being a supercriminal without enough cash to close a deal. I wasn't closing a deal here, of course, merely investing in some Chinese food, but as I mentioned previously I didn't have a grand scheme in the making at that time. I prefer to have it around is all. Just in case. Some opportunities you _never_ get back.

I had been to this particular establishment once or twice - any more than that usually puts one at risk for recognition - and so I was mildly familiar with the menu. It was garish on the outside, with as many tacky Chinese symbols as could be crammed onto the cramped thirty feet of storefront, but the inside was reasonably pleasant. Upon entry, behind the inward-opening door one was met with a high faux-bamboo counter decorated with a welcoming sign requesting one waited to be seated in both English and Chinese - and I know this because I could read both - behind which the menu board spread below the ceiling, detailing in small font and hit-and-miss English exactly what one could expect the restaurant to serve. Beyond the lobby loomed the restaurant itself, lit dimly with reddish mood lighting, the shadows of diners hunched over their food flickering shadows in the near-darkness. I have no idea why they kept the lights so low. Perhaps they were concerned with what their patrons would think of their dishes if they actually had to look at them. The food there was good, but not much to look at. Neither was any of the tableware they serve it on.

The hostess appeared from within the restaurant to take my order, which was merely the first combination plate on the menu - as long as it contains fried rice and chow mein, I'm not too particular - and I tipped her too much because I felt like it. Sometimes I like to do nice things of that nature. She told me it would be ten minutes and I sat down on the hard plastic bench next to the hostess stand to wait.

The air was thick with the scent of spices, so much so that I was almost able to taste them; in reaction I was forced to swallow hard and my stomach generated a noise of complaint. I hoped it was one of those occasions where the time given is more of a buffer for the kitchen than an actual estimate. I had left the Asylum before lunch and... well, I hadn't been feeling up to breakfast lately. Even if I'd been caught, sent back to my cell and proceeded to do nothing for the rest of the day, I would have been starving. After the day's activities, I had become quite lightheaded and I didn't like it.

Several sketchy-looking characters filtered in in twos and threes, scruffy-looking punks with shoddy gang jackets and all matters of metal inserted into their faces. There were about eight of them, though it was hard to tell because I was momentarily distracted by the simply absurd chain stretching from one young man's nose to his earlobe. I like to pride myself as a man who appreciates other people's taste in accoutrements, but _that_ I just could not bring myself to understand. One of the hoodlums smirked at me and elbowed the friend nearest.

Mm. He was one of _those_ people.

"Good evening, gentlemen," I called out to them, folding my hands together and bringing one leg across the opposite knee in a casual sort of way. "Might I inquire as to your business here? Forgive me if I'm wrong - which I doubt - but you don't seem to be in the mood for Chinese."

"Sure we are," said the degenerate with the quaint nose jewellery. "Chinese _money_ , that is."

I creased my brow in mild, falsified confusion. "I'm afraid you won't find any of that here, my friend. The Chinese Yuan isn't accepted currency. American dollars only. Canadian ones, if you're lucky."

A charming young fellow with a crooked nose indicating several breakages that had gone without medical help stepped toward me, sneering. "She's Chinese, and she's got money. That clear enough for you, smart guy?"

I detest when people call me that.

"Seeing as she is employed at a place of business firmly planted in American soil, I would venture to say she's American," I told him, annoyed. Those ten minutes were definitely up and I suspected I would not be receiving my order until the motley crew was cleared out. And since I had just been insulted, mostly by their failure to recognise me, I was going to have to do it.

"Let her be," I continued, tapping my thumbs together as I contemplated how to handle it. I can fight when need be, but there were too many variables set against my victory: eight to one, in a dark and cramped space, with myself being hungry and irritated and feeling the fatigue of my day beginning to set in. "Go find some other source of income. It doesn't have to be honest, just _earn_ it, for God's sake."

"Get a load of this guy!" laughed one of the taller ones with a sloppy newfangled half-shave as a haircut. I judged him to be just under six feet, however, so I still had the advantage there. I stood up slowly, eyeing them enough to size them up without being obvious. Some other time, if I'd had my cane, I could have taken them... but just then, though it pained me to admit it, I probably could not. I had to think of some other way.

"It's too bad you don't realise who you're dealing with," I said, casually stepping behind the hostess stand and giving the shelf behind it a quick once-over. The young woman there looked at me as though she thought I were about to rob her myself - and in my younger days I might have, though I try to keep my jobs a bit grander and more meaningful now - but no. I was looking for an advantage, and with my unwelcome presence behind what had become the young lady's makeshift shield, I found one.

"Unless you're the Joker in disguise," scoffed the smallest one, overcompensating for his lack of height by way of numerous loud tattoos, "we're not too worried."

I sighed.

Of all the places they could have gone, they went _there_.

"The Joker," I told them, moving back out from behind the counter and expertly manoeuvring my newly acquired pair of chopsticks between the fingers of my left hand, "is not the only one you need to be concerned about."

"Is that so," said the tallest of them, though he was still an inch below I. "And you're one of those people?"

"Forgive me for not having a riddle for you," I told him, heading smoothly for a mid-size man with some frankly hideous facial scarring, "but it's been a long day and all I really want is for you to get lost so I can take my food and go home."

"You're the _riddle guy_?" my target wheezed, as though that knowledge alone were enough to cause him to die of amusement. "You think _we're_ afraid of - "

I quickly shoved him up against the door and directed one of the chopsticks up his left nostril. I could probably have fit the other one up there as well, but I didn't want things to get _too_ messy.

"Hm. It seems I _do_ have a riddle, after all, though it's a very simple one. Riddle me this: just where is this going to go if I keep pushing?" Not up to my usual standards at _all_ , but they're a mite harder to come up with when I'm in that sort of condition, and wasn't as though they were clever enough to solve one anyway. "Might I give you a bit of history, while we're here?"

The thug in front of me was in no state to answer, blood already running slowly down the wood to my lamentably naked fingertips, and none of the group behind me dissented. I shrugged. "Very well then. Now, I'm sure this is painful enough, but consider: in the late thirties, a man named Walter Freeman would insert a golden ice pick above the eyes of patients and... well... basically destroy their brains. The claim was that such an operation, to put it loosely, would improve the lives of those given the surgery! I'm not certain such a procedure works quite as well through the nose with a piece of wood as the original method does, but we can certainly try it!" I dropped the jovial act, lowering my voice and making eye contact with my little patient from beneath my brow. "Would you like to try it?"

"N-no sir," he stammered, eyes wide.

"Excellent." I yanked the utensil from his face and he immediately bent over to hold his nose, which was fortunate, as it almost immediately fountained blood and I didn't really want any of it on me. They weren't my clothes, but being drenched in blood isn't something I'm fond of no matter _what_ I'm wearing. "Now go back to your little clubhouse. And don't forget to tell them that _riddle guy_ kicked your ass with a chopstick."

Having dealt with the group of imbeciles, I turned to the young hostess, intending to finally get my food and leave for home. Her face held nothing but complete shock, which I felt the need to address.

"Not to worry, madam," I told her smoothly, accepting the handles of a blank white plastic bag. "I daresay they won't be bothering you again. I'm sorry about that, but some things can only be dealt with one way. Have a wonderful night, my dear."

She said not a word, but that was all right. I wasn't trying to make conversation. Sometimes I just like to hear the sound of my own voice. And there's nothing wrong with that!

As I pulled open the door and stepped into the blue twilight of the street, I saw out of the corner of my eye that the young dullards hadn't gone very far. They were clumped around their hapless comrade, whose nose I am pleased to say was still bleeding. That one will _never_ forget me.

"We can take the guy!" hissed the tallest of the eight, glancing at me as though I couldn't hear him. Maybe he thought I couldn't, but fortunately my hearing is excellent. "That was a fluke! No way he can take out _all_ of us with a pair of chopsticks!"

The moron with the damaged nose shook his head. "You didn't look into his eyes, man. That guy's crazy, and I don't wanna know if he could kill me with a fortune cookie. Just let him go."

I ground my teeth involuntarily. I'm _not_ crazy, and I had half a mind to give it to them even though they hadn't asked for it... but no. That was an emotional response, and I am a man of logic. They had bid to leave me to my business, and so I would leave them to theirs.

I walked through the darkened streets, the struggling sunlight of day having given in to the encroaching darkness living in Gotham's cold heart, a hint of petrichor on the air. I hoped I would make it to my office before the rain broke; I had no desire to get soaked just then.

I made it there without incident, thankfully, and as I turned the deadbolt I sighed involuntarily. I was tired, far more exhausted than I should have been. There had been a... a settling of fatigue, someplace, deep inside of my body. It was powerful, almost painful, and I had yet to discover the cause. That lack of knowledge bothered me more than the weariness itself.

I removed my jacket and sat heavily in the desk chair, hearing it creak beneath me. I wasted no more time in opening the bag and removing one of the cartons. I didn't care what was in it at that point. It could have held lasagna and I would have eaten it without question. It was not, of course, lasagna; it was chow mein and it was quite good. The chopsticks were cheap - and no, they were not _those_ chopsticks, that would have been vile - but serviceable, and I made quick work of about half of the takeout, with some to eat cold the next day. Most things I find palatable even cold, except for spaghetti. I don't know why that is.

I packed everything up neatly and settled back in the chair with a satisfied grunt, fingers picking at the plastic sealed around one of the fortune cookies. I care neither for cookies nor fortunes, but I figured the paper within would be amusing at the very least. I turned it around a few times, preferring to pull the fortune out as opposed to cracking the confection and scattering crumbs all over myself. After a little bit of worrying the tiny corner visible, I was able to gently pull out the rectangular message.

"'Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday,'" I read aloud, shaking my head and letting the slip flutter to the floor. I slid the cookie back into the plastic and tossed it in the general direction of the plastic bag. It skidded a couple of inches back, within a respectable distance of the bag itself. Worry, indeed. I never worry. I never have anything to worry _about_.

I leaned forward to shut the lamp off as I kicked off my shoes, adjusting the chair enough that I could cross my ankles on the desktop without positioning my feet overly high. In my line of work, one acquires the almost superhuman ability to sleep anywhere at any time. And as far as places to nod off go, that was one of my first picks. I settled my shoulders into the chair back, letting the slow warmth of a comfortably full stomach wash over my tired body, and I slept.

 

 

**Author's note**

This is the one story I want told in all of Batman. We're given the one-page summary of the Riddler's plot and that's all. They're not going to tell it, so I decided to try to tell it to myself.

Haven't written anything since November so I might be rusty. I've also never written in this style before; previously I could get away with not describing anything, but for the Riddler I can't do that. I might also mix up the tenses at times by mistake; I've tried to catch the errors but I may have missed some.

The desk is based on one my mom had in the basement for most of my life; my physics teacher in high school had a similar one.  


End file.
